Success to the Brave (7 page)

Bolitho turned to face the doors as he heard Chase's heavy footsteps returning.

In many ways it was harder than fighting a battle, he thought. And far less rewarding.

5 “
T
HERE MAY BE THUNDER . . .”

T
HE WEEKS
which followed the reception at Chase's fine house taxed Bolitho to the limit. Jonathan Chase and several other wealthy Bostonians took it upon themselves to make them welcome, and nightly entertainment of one kind or another had become a regular feature for
Achates
' wardroom.

And yet Bolitho was plagued by the idea that the lack of news and assistance by the President's representative, Samuel Fane, were linked in some way.

Perhaps he should have ignored the outline of his orders and proceeded first to San Felipe without entrusting the opening move to Captain Duncan in the
Sparrowhawk.
But had he done so his action might have been construed as arrogance or worse.

And where was
Sparrowhawk?
What had Duncan found so important that he had delayed joining him here at Boston?

On this particular day Bolitho had been unable to touch his midday meal at all. The meat and bread were fresh, brought off shore by one of Chase's own boats, yet he could not face it.

Around and above him the ship was resting in the sweltering heat, and there was the usual heady smell of rum as each mess issued its ration for the day.

Maybe Sheaffe had known it would all be a waste of time which might end in disagreement with the Americans.

He tugged the shirt away from his skin. It felt like a wet rag. He made himself remain in his chair, knowing he would only begin to pace about the cabin like a caged lion if he did not.

Belinda.
He twisted round in the chair and stared through the stern windows until his eyes watered. It would be over by now. They would have a child, unless . . .

Suppose something had gone wrong? It was her first time. Anything might happen.

He saw the distant houses move into view as
Achates
swung indifferently to her cable. It would be better to get to sea again. To
do
something.

There was a light tap at the screen door and Keen entered, his eyes moving quickly to the untouched plate on Bolitho's table.

“The American frigates are shortening their cables, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Yes. Only the French will be here now.”

Keen said, “In my opinion, sir, we should have another vessel attached to us for communications.”

“You've been thinking about Duncan's
Sparrowhawk
too?”

Keen shrugged. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Without even a brig in company we are deaf and dumb to everything beyond the harbour limits.”

Yovell, the clerk, hovered in the doorway. “Beg pardon, zur, there are some papers for yew to sign.”

Bolitho thought suddenly of his nephew. Adam had asked permission to escort Chase's niece to her home in Newburyport. He could envy him his freedom from the endless waiting and the uncertainty. Bolitho knew he had been poor company and he had even exploded over one of Allday's comments. He had immediately relented. It was not Allday's fault. It was not anybody's.

Bolitho read swiftly through Yovell's handwriting and then put his signature at the bottom. No wonder they said the Admiralty was crammed with written reports. Did anyone ever read them? he wondered.

He said abruptly, “I shall try once more to discuss the matter of San Felipe with the Americans, after that I shall be pleased to sail for the island,
Sparrowhawk
or not. You might send word privately to Antigua if you can discover a ship's master for the task. The admiral at English Harbour should be told what we are about. If I add a line to your despatch we
might
even worm a brig out of his command, eh?”

Ozzard entered and removed the tray with nothing but a reproachful glance to reveal what he thought about it.

Keen said, “You don't think the Americans would interfere with our affairs, sir?”

“Those frigates, you mean?” Bolitho shook his head. “It would be unwise. They may voice their displeasure, but they're more likely to remain on the fence as spectators.”

The first lieutenant appeared at the screen door, his head stooped beneath the deckhead beams.

“Your pardon, sir, but Mr Chase's launch is approaching. He has the
other
gentleman with him.”

Bolitho and Keen exchanged glances.

Bolitho said quietly, “Fane, the President's emissary, at long last. Now perhaps we can settle the matter.”

Keen picked up his hat and grinned. “Full guard of honour, Mr Quantock. If there is to be a squall, it will not be of our making!”

Allday padded from the adjoining cabin and glanced at the sword rack, then with a slight hesitation he took down the brightly gilded presentation blade which had been given to Bolitho after the Battle of the Nile.

He gave the old sword a pat and murmured, “You rest easy.”

Bolitho allowed him to clip the glittering presentation sword to his belt.

The old family sword was for fighting. This was a time for diplomacy.

Some twelve hundred miles south of where Bolitho contained his impatience and waited to receive Mr Samuel Fane, His Britannic Majesty's frigate
Sparrowhawk
of twenty-six guns was becalmed in blinding sunlight. Two of her boats moved sluggishly on tow-lines ahead of their parent ship, more to give her steerageway than with any hope of finding a wind.

It had been like this for three whole days since the frigate had weighed anchor in San Felipe, her mission there only partially completed.

In his cabin Captain James Duncan sat at a table, his face set in a frown, as he added another paragraph to an already lengthy letter. It was to his wife and, like most married sea officers, Duncan continued each letter with the same regularity as a personal log. He did not know when the letter would be completed, even less when he would be able to pass it to some home-bound vessel so that his wife would eventually read it in their Dorset home.

Duncan, for all his bluff ways, was very soft where his wife was concerned. They had been married for only two years, and he had been with her in that time for less than a month. He had no regrets, it was part of the sacrifice you had to make if you intended the Navy as a career. Duncan was a post-captain and had only just passed his twenty-seventh birthday. If he held this command under Bolitho there would be no stopping him, even in a time of uneasy peace.

Like many of his contemporaries, Duncan had little faith in a lasting peace. He had distinguished himself in three major battles and had been extremely successful in other ship-to-ship engagements where the cut and thrust of every good frigate captain showed its worth.

He admired Bolitho tremendously, not merely for his courage and skill—that Duncan could take for granted—but for his true interest in those who served him. Although he would never admit it, Duncan tried to model himself on Bolitho.

That was the main reason for his frown. His visit to San Felipe had not been a success. The governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, had treated him more as a stupid subordinate than the captain of a King's ship and Bolitho's own representative.

Duncan knew all about ships and the sea, but he had no knowledge at all of men like Rivers.

Rivers had lost his temper at their first meeting. In his impressive house which nestled comfortably amidst a great plantation, Rivers had shouted, “There's a graveyard by the harbour, Captain! Full of good men who have fought for this island. I'll not betray their trust by handing over everything to the French. Damn your eyes if I shall!”

Duncan secretly agreed with him, but he was used to obeying orders. In any case, he did not like the man, and thought him an arrogant pig.

Bolitho would not thank him for bringing him such empty news. If Rivers refused to comply with the agreed terms he might find himself charged with treason, or an act of mutiny, or whatever governors were disciplined by. Duncan frowned more deeply and put his pen to paper again.

The deck gave a shudder and a pair of brass dividers clattered from another table.

Duncan lurched to his feet as the ship slowly came to life beneath him.

He hurried on deck and found his first lieutenant and sailing-master staring up at the limp canvas as very gently a breeze pushed against the rigging.

Duncan dashed the sweat from his eyes. It was not much, but . . .

“Mr Palmer! Recall those boats and hoist 'em inboard. Pipe all hands.” He clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and added, “God damn it, Mr Palmer, maybe we've seen the last of this place, eh?”

He crossed to the side and grasped the sun-heated rail with his powerful hands. He saw the first boat cast off the tow and pull gratefully towards the ship, its sunburned oarsmen almost too weary to make the effort.

Duncan wondered how the other ship was faring. They had sighted her just before both vessels had been becalmed in the stifling heat.

The first lieutenant returned as the hands swarmed up to man halliards and braces.

He said, “The masthead reported that our shy companion was still with us at eight bells, sir.”

To confirm it the lookout's voice made several of the seamen look up at his lofty perch.

“Deck thar! Ship on th' weather-bow! She's settin' 'er t'gan's'ls!”

Duncan grunted and turned to watch his own ship lean slightly to the mounting pressure. The second boat was being swayed up and over the gangway. His
Sparrowhawk
was moving again.

The sailing-master said, “She'll be on a converging tack with us, sir.”

“Put a good man to watch her.”

Duncan pushed the sudden anxiety from his thoughts. For a small moment he had thought it might be
Achates,
Bolitho coming to look for him, to discover the meaning of the delay.

Blocks clattered and lines snaked through the sheaves as slowly, and then more confidently,
Sparrowhawk
responded to the pressure in her sails.

“North by west, sir! Full an' bye!”

Duncan rubbed his reddened face and waited for the sails to fill again. It was not much, but enough to make her thrust through the water. The tiny island which had shown itself on the horizon had dipped over the sea's rim before the master had identified it. Probably one of the islets of the Bahama chain, Duncan thought.

There were some little ones off San Felipe too. One even had a strange mission church on it, and he had been told that some monks existed there, entirely cut off from everything.

San Felipe had originally been Spanish, so it seemed likely that the monks were the last survivors of that occupation.

Duncan felt in better spirits. He had, after all, done what he had been ordered to do. Bolitho would know how to interpret what he had seen and heard.

“I'm going below, Mr Palmer. I've a letter to finish. Who knows, I may be able to send it off sooner than I thought!”

Palmer smiled. When the captain was in good humour the ship was always a better place.

As the wind continued to fill the sails, and froth gurgled around the bows, the other ship grew larger while she continued purposefully on a converging tack.

Too large for a frigate, Palmer thought, as he clung to the weather shrouds and trained his telescope on her. She was shining in the bright glare, her chequered gunports almost awash as she found the wind which had not yet reached
Sparrowhawk.

West Indiaman probably, he decided. They were as smart as paint these days. It was said that a grocery captain could earn as much on one passage as would take ten years in the Navy.

“She's hoisted a signal, sir!”

“I can see that, dammit!” Palmer was tired from standing so long in the heat, praying for a wind. It put an edge to his voice which was unusual for him.

The signals midshipman swallowed hard and levelled his big glass on the other vessel, his face screwed up with concentration as he held the lens on the brightly coloured flags at her yard.

“She wishes to speak with us, sir!”

The first lieutenant swore under his breath. It was probably of no importance at all, and to heave to while they exchanged useless information might mean losing the wind again.

He snapped, “Acknowledge the signal, Mr Clements.” He beckoned to the midshipman-of-the-watch. “My respects to the captain, Mr Evans. Tell him we shall have to heave to.”

Palmer swung away. The captain's good mood would vanish now.

James Duncan, his shirt open to his waist, strode from the companion-way and eyed the other vessel without comment. She could have important news which had a bearing on their mission. Her master might just as easily be eager to exchange gossip. Two ships meeting far from home were all that was required.

“Shorten sail, Mr Palmer. Stand by to come about.”

He clasped his hands behind him and watched his men scamper to their stations.